Hollow Men
by Project Hypocrisy
Summary: Upon looking onto a bright future she helped create, Janet Roche can't help but think back to a dingy past and a certain masked hero she never could understand. NOTE: Movie ending. But everything else is comic book. Rating may go up.
1. Chapter 1

_**Hollow Men**_

Summary: Janet Roche is at the end of her rope. It isn't the first time. She's faced personal turmoil before. However, she had a hero to turn to. Now, looking onto a post-Adrian Veidt Utopia, Janet wonders where she went wrong and attempts to protect the ideal of a madman, for she is equally insane.

Disclaimer: Own nottathing.

**_

* * *

Chapter one_**

**_The Way the World Ends_**

"_...__This is the way the world ends_

_This is the way the world ends_

_This is the way the world ends_

_Not with a bang but a whimper." –T.S. Elliot, Hollow Men_

She held the edge of what separated her from the crumbling world: the window frame, in two hands, resting her head on the thick pane of glass, believing she can feel the frosted November wind on her forehead and the apples of her cheeks. She closed her eyes, leaving her body to the world around her, surrendering the tempo of her breath to the pitter-patter of the rain on the world beneath her. Pitter: _breathe in_. Patter: _breathe out_.

Residing so high above made her lose perspective, she noticed. But noticed far too late. It burned her to know that she and Adrian were nothing but dreamers in their respective towers. Dreamers in a world that demanded for them, but when they tempted to make those dreams reality, they were spat out faster than gum that lost its plasticity. Maybe her mother was right. Perhaps she was nothing more than a romantic, in the traditional sense of the word. Perhaps she should have been baptised a Protestant. But her father, long gone now, wanted to hear nothing of it. But, where was he now, as she stood in her office, peering down on the city that bustled beneath her? Where was he now as she loomed over the untimely demise of the world? Where was he now as she burned at the stake like a witch, their steely pitchforks poking open her sides? She was all alone now.

"Miss Roche," her secretary called for her attention, "Mr. Veidt is here."

"Send him in."

The door clicked closed and was re-opened momentarily. She turned to greet him, his arms open wide to gather her in a friendly embrace that seemed to be custom for the great business giant.

"Janet!" He called, holding her to his built chest, crafted over the years.

"Adrian!" They parted, "how was the flight?"

"Turbulence over the Atlantic, but nothing to write home about."

"So, you _were_ at the Moscow press conference."

"Reminded me of the Nuremberg trial. They built a conference hall amidst the rubble just for said occasion."

It was a grim silence between the two. The arms that rested on Adrian's shoulders no longer rested there. She looked to her drink cabinet.

"Care for a drink?"

"Please. Scotch, if you have any."

"Always, Adrian. It's the only think I _can_ drink these days."

She poured them a drink in plain silence. She yelped and spilled some of the liquor on the cabinet's top. Adrian's hand clasped to her shoulder still.

"I can't have you feeling guilt."

"I thought that was the entire point. Feeling such profound remorse for what we did in hopes that no one else should." She began to pour the drinks again, still feeling the burn of his hand on her shoulder, "they'll execute us like fascist monsters and proclaim us as nothing but goddamned Nazis!"

"That's _if_ they find us out."

"They will, Adrian." She turned to him, handing him the crystallized glass of Scotch, "we haven't called into account all the enumerable human factors, all the enumerable things that can go wrong."

He took a long swig of the liquid, letting the brown liquid trickle down his throat. He turned away from her, looking to the window. Beyond the office was a park on a hill where he could see a mother pushing her stroller.

"We can't possible consider all of these factors. But once they emerge, _I _will deal with them. Not you, _I_ will."

"Adrian... This world can't last. It'll die out like the other Utopias."

"Because all the other Utopias were populated by _humans_. We will populate ours with _mankind_. Your dream will come to fruitation, my dearest Janet, and I will witness the glory of it all."

He turned from the window, looking back at her. Her drink was now empty and her eyes drooped even more. But a faint glimmer of hope twinkled in her eyes. After years of searching, he had found his other. And an emanate platonic love formed in all its Formful(*) glory that would make even Plato proud. But Janet was a shrouded soul, lost so deep in the tides of day-to-day living, lost so deep in the world that once was before "Dr. Manhattan's slaughter".

"How _was _the conference?"

Veidt smiled his charming smile. He knew she couldn't keep dwelling on "ifs" and "buts". "Wonderfully well. You should have been there! The brotherhood of man united finally after so many years. Now if only we could solidify such an accomplishment."

"All right, Adrian, all right. I get it."

"What?" He gave her his usual façade of being hurt.

"My research is coming along just fine. We will create our _mankind_ in no time."

He smiled at her and left it at that. She was natural born worker, that's how he was at the stage he was at. A kingdom cannot be built without a sturdy foundation; he knew that in his near infinite intelligence. But as he built his kingdom, he couldn't help but hear the creaking of her back, the snap of her joints, the subtle hints of exhaustion.

"Perhaps we should go out for dinner. Show me around your lovely city."

She let out a short chuckle, "a date? With _the_ Mr. Adrian Veidt? Flattering. But, I can't, I apologize."

"Oh?"

"I'd rather not be constantly reminded of how this city reminds me of New York."

He nodded, understanding the sorrow in her heart. He had hoped that this could all go without incident, but there was no other way. She knew that all too well.

"Of course, Janet," he leant into her proximity and garnished her cheek with a soft kiss. "When this is all over, we'll know we did the right thing."

He left the empty glass on her desk and walked out, but not before leaving her with a final smile. As the door closed behind him, she truly wished that the world's smartest man wouldn't chose now of all times to be wrong.

(*)(*)(*)(*)

Janet pushed out a sigh, rubbing the back of her neck, feeling her bun untie itself until it was no longer a bun at all. She sighed again, making a ponytail instead, pulling back as much frizz as she could. She looked to her analogue clock. Hour and minute hand touched the twelve on the frigid April night, 1971. And she was locked in her office, in the research facility built above a department store and beneath a family clinic. She was alone, or at least, so she thought.

She decided to call it a night before it was too late. She packed up her notebooks in her bag and walked out of her office, not before locking the door behind her. She continued on until she found one of the medical closets emit a string of light on the polished floor. She decided to make as much noise as she could, hoping to scare off the intruder before she reached the door. It was a terribly bad idea, seeing as her profession called many mentally instable young men to crowd around her. Maybe it was one of them trying to steal a syringe. She banged on the door, realizing that she had bought a bottle of pepper spray and decided to call out the potential thief.

There wasn't a scurry to indicate that they were hiding themselves, so Janet opened the door; the element of surprise. But it was she that was caught off-guard. "Miss Roche."

"Oh my fucking God... You can't fucking _ask_ for gauze! No, you just have to scare the shit out of me."She dropped the can of pepper spray into her bag, knowing now that the situation didn't call for such force.

"Didn't think you would be out so late. Dangerous at night. Thought you knew better."

"Oh, can it, Walter!" She called him by his real name despite the fact that he wore his ever changing mask. She found it ridiculous to make the distinction between the two. They were both right-winged vigilantes, taking to the cover of the night; and she wasn't about to endorse his personality disorder.

She noticed then that he was tempting to pack a wound fist deep with gauze in hopes of stopping the blood from pouring out. It did otherwise and she sighed. She didn't need this at this hour.

"Why don't you learn to stop getting yourself into these types of situations, Walter," she tugged at his arm, which got her an unintentional growl, but she continued until he was sitting on an unpacked box of tape.

He braced himself visibly; she was notoriously vicious when it came to patching up her patients. There was one young man, Walter remembered, who had got into a fist-to-fist combat with a woman who should have just let him steal her purse, but she didn't. She took off her heeled shoe at one point and sliced open his cheek and then continued to beat him over the head with it until he was lying on the ground begging. She stopped then, wagging her finger and then drove him to her office building and lead him into her boss' office. Walter, then freely walked into Miss Roche's office _without_ his mask, found the boy lying on the inclined couch crying like a child as she sewed up the inch deep wound and disinfected his head wounds. "Serves you right. Didn't come for your appointment; God's divine punishment." So what punishment did Walter deserve? Or for that matter, the punishment that Rorschach deserved?

It was a gash on his forearm. He had taken off his jacket; not completely though, letting one side rest on his other shoulder. The young psychologist was bushed beyond repair and he noticed the effects of her exhaustion had on how she pulled together the skin without any gloves or instruments. She was much gentler, however.

There was a long period of silence before Janet decided to break it with a violent statement, "I didn't think you'd come back."

"Didn't want to. Had to. Seen injury? Didn't think you'd be here so late."

"You needed to hear what I had to say, Walter."

"Done?" He tried to get up, but was tugged back down. The woman was strong and he had lost a lot of blood. So, he let her continue, trying to bite back the silent rage that seemed to embody Rorschach more and more every day.

"I'm not up for your bullshit tonight or any other night, Walter." She looked up to his face, eyebrow rose, "that's rude. Not going to take off your mask?"

He pulled up the hem of his mask, letting the fedora tumble to the floor. "Happy?"

She nodded. She honestly didn't mean to be so forceful, but men like Walter couldn't respond otherwise. It was almost like an unspoken agreement. She wondered how long it would be until he decided to take the gloves off and play a different game.

"I guess they didn't have the opportunity to slash up your face."

"Not going to mental institution." He was seemingly ignoring her small talk.

"Fine, Walter."

"Don't try that again."

"Fine."

"Insulted me. Trusted you."

She looked up to his unshaven face, his glossy eyes casted long unmovable stares. She was used to those stares. And it increasingly became worse as the years went on. "I'm sorry, Walter. You know, I only want to help."

"Trusted you to understand. Don't need help like that. Need you to understand why I do this. Told you. Opened up to you. Still don't seem to understand."

"I know, Walter. It was in bad taste. I'm sorry." She closed her eyes, rubbed them with the back of her hands. She finally pulled on some gloves and then went to work with her suture kit. "I battled with myself for months, trying to find a better way..." She decided to leave it like so and didn't delve into it any longer, neither did Walter for that matter.

"Bastard cut you deep."

"Bitch."

"Excuse me?"

"Twilight Lady with hair pin."

"Oh... Crazy world we live in these days..."

"Hurm."

"There, all done." She handed him a pack of gauze. He took it, nodding in thanks. He pulled back his coat on, then his mask, then his fedora.

He walked out without another word, but she knew that he wouldn't leave her at this hour. He couldn't live with the thought of having some damsel on the roads at this hour. He wouldn't leave her and she took comfort in that at times. Her office, her apartment, the city seemed that much more empty without the promise of being under the masked vigilante's gaze.

When she planned his arrest with her colleges, her heart tore in two. He wasn't like the other patients... he was truly and honestly _good_. Just fairly misguided but she _understood_ that; even without the aid of her textbooks. _And _he came of his own freewill! So it was natural that she didn't want him to be locked away with doped up screw ups that didn't have a lick of anything in common with him. But when he managed to get away, cursing Janet to the day she died with his silent glare, she felt so damned ashamed. That shame eventually turned into loneliness. She enjoyed hearing him talk and when she figured out that he wouldn't risk coming back any longer, she knew she was now alone.

He understood why she was doing what she was doing; trying to grapple with the long unanswered question: what was the origin of aggression? He seemed to be the only one who understood her; even her colleges didn't and only believed the clinic was built to _help_ these criminals. He understood her and dismissed her efforts wholeheartedly, telling her that she was nothing more than an idle dreamer. She found that refreshing, as well.

She closed the light and walked out. She needed to mail out her letter of thanks to Mr. Veidt, anyways.

* * *

A/N: I dunno... Tell me what you think. Felt like uploading this to see the kind of feedback I would get. lol


	2. Chapter 2

_**Hollow Men**_

Summary: Janet Roche is at the end of her rope. It isn't the first time. She's faced personal turmoil before. However, she had a hero to turn to. Now, looking onto a post-Adrian Veidt Utopia, Janet wonders where she went wrong and attempts to protect the ideal of a madman, for she is equally insane.

Disclaimer: Own nottathing.

* * *

**_Chapter Two_**

**_They Were Heroes_**

"_...Those who have crossed_

_With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom_

_Remember us—if at all—not as lost_

_Violent souls, but only_

_As the hollow men..."_

Janet let her secretary lead the way into the waiting lounge. She was about to comment how chilled they kept the room, but found it unnecessarily early to make such a comment; an unexpected guest needed to be dealt with first.

"Mr. Dreiberg?"

He stood from his seat, adjusting his glass before holding out his hand, "Miss Roche. I'm sorry to call you out today. I expect you to be busy these days."

"Always, Mr. Dreiberg. But I can always make time for an old acquaintance." This pricked up the middle-aged man's ears noticeably; he had hoped she would say something like that and not bear him down with guilt. He _did_ come from quite a distance.

"Mrs. Hughes, do prepare coffee and tea for me and my guest. I suspect you take coffee, Mr. Dreiberg?" He nodded graciously.

"Of course, Miss Roche." With a nod Janet allowed Daniel Dreiberg to follow her into her office and thanked her secretary all in one motion.

"So," she looked over to Mr. Dreiberg, the once acclaimed Nite Owl, "what brings you out to the great Dutch north?"

"You, Ms. Roche."

She rose her left eyebrow sceptically, "Should I be flattered, Mr. Dreiberg?"

"Daniel." He adjusted his glasses again, a look of composure on his square face.

She opened the door to her office and let him in first, "of course. Do take a seat, Daniel."

He did. The nice faux leather seat in front of her desk, and she took her rightful place behind her high definition desk, commanding authority even though it was quite unnecessary.

"Do tell me what this is about, Daniel. I hate suspense."

He fished out a familiar article and placed it onto her desk: the mask. The black blobs long stopped moving and began to leak on the white. _Stupid man... Nothing ever remains just black and white._

"I thought you deserved to know that he is dead."

"Mr. Dreiberg, with all due respect, Mr. Kovacs died 10 years ago." She looked up at the man, an ancient hero, now just a shell of a man. She knew his kind far too well. "What remained of him could _never_ be the man I once knew. Rorschach's death means nothing to me."

"I see," he didn't take the mask back, but decided that it was best to leave now, "I thought you should know that he was dead, regardless."

"Thank you, Daniel." She stood and walked over to her window, hands folded behind her back. She heard the door close and then re-opened momentarily.

"Just tea, Mrs. Hughes. Black will do." She heard the clank of her tea cup on the desk and then the clicky-clack of her secretary's stilettos. "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes."

She looked back to her desk, the mask laying there, stretched out and staring back at her. The mask never bore fear in her unlike others. But it lying there, staring her down... She held her breath and turned around swiftly, biting her lip. She cried enough ten years ago when Walter's dead corpse was in her arms and tore away from her violently by Rorschach. There weren't any tears left for Rorschach; which didn't bother her much.

(*)(*)(*)(*)

It's August 1968, a man named Walter Kovacs walks into Janet Roche's office for the first time. Janet knew of the man: his slumped shoulders, his tattered old trench coat, his gruff speech. She met the man nearly two years prior. But it was only some August afternoon, after a warm rain, humidity tangling her hair up, that he walked into her office, mask nowhere to be found. She smiled at him, proud of her handy work, tossing him a sugar cube casually. He took it in his hand, popped it in his mouth and leaned back on her stool in front of her desk.

"Hey there, stranger." She greeted him like she always did.

" 'Afternoon."

"Want coffee with that sugar?"

"Rather not."

She sat back down on her chair, swivelling it from side to side, looking at him like she always did. It was all so casual that he begun to doubt that he had taken off his mask at all and just waltzed into the building mask and all. But the sugar cube eased into his mouth without the troublesome movement of lifting the thing just a-ways. But it was his face. _His face._ He nearly laughed out loud from the notion. Janet would have just looked at him with a wary eye.

"Glad to see that you've got a face under there." Silence. Pause. "Begun to think that you had nothing but a black hole underneath." Silence again.

It was his turn to talk, "too warm in this office. Thought it would be better like this."

She smiled and tossed him another sugar cube. His reflexes were extensively trained, she mused to herself. She always wondered what it would be like to see the man in action, but that wasn't a proper thing for his _psychologist_ to be thinking. The man was clinically delusional, she knew well enough, but there was something more deeply rooted in him that seemed to reflect into her. That very fact made her all the more curious to decode the man. The way he battled the scum of New York... She dreamt to be a part of that struggle and fancied herself so. Janet was a vigilante in her own right; but instead of donning a mask she masked herself in majors and a crowded office. And Walter had seemed to see that in her, or else he wouldn't have bothered to sneak into her office a few months prior.

"You know, it is better like this. At least I know who I'm talking to."

"I told you my real name."

She smiled, "I know. But I'm not good with names. I'd rather have a face with that name. Do you know what I mean?" He knew what she meant so he nodded. "Good. I saw your handy work in the papers this morning. Do you ever sleep?"

"City doesn't sleep, I can't sleep." He rubbed at his eye with the back of his hand from the notion of missing out sleep. What was it now? Third day in a row? He began to ask himself why he was in her office anyways and not in his apartment sleeping off the exhaustion.

"You know, he was a good kid."

"Your job is to see good in everyone."

"I guess. Might be why I hang out with you." She let out a chuckle that didn't mirror well onto Walter's face. He was still as placid as ever. She tossed him another sugar cube. "Can't see how you can eat 'em straight up like that."

He shrugged his shoulders, "gift? Have to thank you for the tip, though."

She placed a finger to her lips, "that's our little secret, you know. I give you the names of the good kids who need someone like you to give them the scare of their life. You know, most of 'em come back."

"And then they get out and onto the streets. There is no curing them."

Janet was silent for some time before she responded to the heavy statement, "I know." Yes, she knew how completely and utterly useless this all was.

"But you'll keep on doing it, right?" There was a certain melancholy gleam to his eyes that wasn't there before.

They were on the same boat, the same boat drifting off to sea without any oars but their own bare hands. It made her smile to think of the metaphor and thinking of them on a boat, his degrading stare as the boat made another loop in a perfect circle. She wasn't ramming hard enough and he was ramming too hard. She would begin to scream at him and he would probably attempt to drown her and in her last moments, before she ran out of breath, he would pull her out. He needed another arm, anyways.

"Why? Why do we keep on doing this, Walter? Why do I endorse your behaviour? I know it isn't healthy for you. I know that you'd rather a normal life above living in sewage management. I know I do. So, why do we do it, Walter? Why do we give a shit about this little piece of hell?"

"Our piece of hell," he responded almost with a philosophical air; at least, that's how Janet had heard it. "Don't need comfort from dying city. Selfish to ask of it while it licks its wounds." He looked up to Janet, "just find it a shame that you think you understand life in sewage business. Don't know."

"I think _that's _why I hang out with you."

"Dream too simple, Janet. Been dreamt before. Poor, sickly dreams."

She nodded but all she wanted to do was slap him, hard. The man was simple, not her dream! He had no right. It was his method of dealing with the problem that was too simple. This was a disease that needed to be cured and just plastering the problem wasn't going to solve anything. She truly thought she was right. She _was_ as hard headed as the man munching on sugar cube after sugar cube.

"Don't you want to wake up from all of this? To a world where it isn't a problem anymore?"

He smiled which unnerved her greatly. "Won't ever wake up. Been trying for so long. But would be nice."

She smiled to herself. There was still hope for him yet. Clinically speaking.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Hollow Men**_

Summary: Janet Roche is at the end of her rope. It isn't the first time. She's faced personal turmoil before. However, she had a hero to turn to. Now, looking onto a post-Adrian Veidt Utopia, Janet wonders where she went wrong and attempts to protect the ideal of a madman, for she is as equally insane.

* * *

_**Chapter Three**_

_**The Old "Showerhead" Trick**_

"_...Eyes I dare not meet in dreams_

_In death's dream kingdom_

_These do not appear:_

_There, the eyes are_

_Sunlight on a broken column_

_There, is a tree swinging_

_And voices are_

_In the wind's singing_

_More distant and more solemn_

_Than a fading star."_

Janet was restless. She had taken the mask home, to her penthouse, and now it was haunting her in the dark recesses of her mind. Sleep was nagging at her and yet she could not go, for fear of dreaming again. It was three in the morning. She had a meeting at ten. She was to make a presentation. She needed to be prepared and not bedridden. She searched the place ten times over and could not find a hint of alcohol. Her mother visited last month... So did her brother... _The bastards!_

She then raided her medicine cabinet and tossed the bottles aside to find a hint of a sedative. She again found nothing. Defeated, she closed the medicine cabinet door. She heard a breath behind her ear. Her senses still groggy and dulled, she sluggishly looked up to her mirror to nearly die of a heart attack.

"Hi there, doc."

"_It can't be!"_

And it wasn't. She was wake, in her bed, her alarm going off just in time. Eight thirty. Adrian was picking her up in an hour. She grudgingly got out of her bed, exposing herself to the cool tile floor and the frigid air. She wanted to crawl back into her blankets but reminded herself how uninviting sleep was in her current state. So, she got up, waddled to the bathroom, flashed on the bright fluorescent lights (reminding herself in the process to change her lighting system) and proceeded to undress. She was wary of what her dreams held the night before and found herself staring into the mirror that was her medicine cabinet door.

She climbed into her shower, turning one tap and then the other, finding the right temperature needed to defrost her limbs. The pounding of the water on her back eased the tensed muscles as she leaned closer and closer to the shower head. She altogether forgot about the rough night she overcame, the morning yet to come and a past best left forgotten. She leaned in even further, forgetting about the showerhead looming over her and smashed head rather hard. Her sight flashed dots. Afraid of losing consciousness while standing, she knelt down. She could hear the showerhead whining, feel the cool porcelain of the tub. Everything was amplified as her sight failed. She felt her head and felt nothing but a small bump. She let out a sigh of relief.

She urged her hand to grab the edge of the tub and pull herself up. She looked to her left and saw a small figure. She was standing there, pointing to the toilet. She needed to go but was too short to reach the seat. A younger Janet walked in, rolling her eyes. She bought a stool for her and she still refused to use it. She adjusted her on the seat before turning to Janet to whisper, _"Kids, you know."_

Janet woke up with a start, tears and water mixing together to the point there was no difference. She felt her head. Blood coated her finger tips. She felt the laceration. It was tender but there didn't seem to be a fracture. She didn't hit it that hard anyways. It was just the way the showerhead was; it's serrated edges. At least she had her head enough to lie down before she passed out. The reason to as _why_ she passed out still a vague mystery.

She got up, feeling a little woozy, but still able to walk out. She turned off the taps and towelled herself. She needed to go call Adrian and ask for his advice. She knew he would drive her to the hospital. But maybe the celebrity could get her in and out in time for the meeting. She pulled on a housecoat and walked down to the kitchen, where a blond man was nosing around. She couldn't remember giving him a spare key, but she did. He looked up at her, not making a comment about her not being ready but smiled instead.

"I didn't think you had eaten breakfast so I thought about making us some before we left."

"Oh. Sounds good, Adrian. I'll go get dressed first." She lost her nerve. It wasn't that bad. Just a little Polysporin, a little up-do and it would like she never hit it.

(*)(*)(*)(*)

It started with a timid knock but then grew into a nervous bashing at his door. A concern neighbour peered through a crack of her door, the chain still hooked in. The young woman probably thought that her neighbour was finally being locked away. She probably thought it was the police. But it wasn't.

Janet desperately tried to pull back her hair into a decent ponytail but failed miserably. She tried to put her coat on straight, but was so lost in thought, she couldn't. One shoe was untied because she missed the bus and couldn't bother waiting another twenty minutes. It was four in the morning, anyways. Only crazies take the bus at four in the morning. And only disturbed women knock at people's doors at four o'clock in the morning.

He finally opened the door, hiding the handle of an axe behind the door but dropped the thing when he realized who it was. "Doc?"

"I'm sorry to wake you up so early in the morning. But I didn't know who else to go to; whom else to turn to." Tears begun to well up. She tried to remain calm, but she couldn't.

He looked to his young neighbour, still peeping. She caught his glare and closed the door promptly. "You better come in." It sounded like an order, was an order, so Janet took it like an order.

He quickly and quietly apologized for the mess, kicking a stray shoe into a corner. Janet responded that she didn't mind, and truly she didn't. It wasn't her place to mind; he let her into his home where other people would have slammed the door in her face. They had already and she feared that he would be no different.

He led her into his kitchen, again apologizing for the mess. She said she had seen worse. Her brother studied at Princeton and took that as an excuse to how poorly he kept his apartment. He lost friends that way. He didn't respond, she was only babbling anyways. He offered her tea. She stared at him blankly. "Water won't kill you. Boiled. Nothing to worry about."

She snapped from her thoughts; it was then he realized she was just lost in her own little world and not contemplating the bacteria count in his water. "I thought you drank coffee."

"You drink tea."

"Thank you, Walter, I'll take a tea." He poured her a cup and set in down on the table. She took it as an invitation to sit down so she did, wondering why he was still standing, staring her down. "I'm sorry to disturb you so early in the morning."

"Know that I'm awake at this hour. Why you came."

She smiled and suddenly, her smile turned sour and became a stifled sob. She tried biting back her sorrow but failed, even in the face of her _ex-patient_. He looked at her, with his stoic stare, but deep down it frightened him to see her façade crumble before the both of them.

"I'm so sorry," she sniffled, trying to wipe the tears of her cheeks, "I just don't know who else to turn to."

He fetched a Kleenex box that laid around during the defrosting period, when winter turned into spring, and the cold crept inside his jacket. She thanked him under her breath and took a hand full. "I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

"I just don't know who else to turn to."

"I know. You've said."

"The police abandoned me. My brother abandoned me. My mother thinks I should move back to Seattle with her. You're the only friend in the whole world that I have left."

"Flattered."

"My niece was kidnapped Walter... it's been two months." There was a period of prolonged silence. Calculations were whizzing by their heads. Two months... the poor girl was as good as dead. "I know what you're thinking, Walter... but I need her back! I want her back! And they won't give her back to me!" Her crying became a fit of violent rage that was only made visible through the shaking of her short body. "Why would they want my Blair? Why!" She tossed the cup of tea with the back of her hand. Her head snapped to where the cup had landed, so greatly surprised that there was an accident at all. She promised herself that she would be calm; she would be collected and above all else, not grovel before the defected man.

He said nothing to her for some time, just looked at her, which was strange in itself. She always felt that he was uncomfortable with her and with some research into the matter; she found that it hadn't been her fault at all. But now, he was looking at her, with his cold hazel eyes, watching the colour leave her face.

"I'm so sorry, Walter, I didn't mean to..." She wasn't sure what she didn't mean to do. Toss the tea cup? Come into his apartment like a raging lunatic? Plan his arrest in her office, the place he let himself be Walter and no one else? She wiped at her face, combing back her hair, "let me get that for you." She went down on her knees to pick up the shards.

He took her hand and brought her to stand before him, "forget it." He went down into the hallway and picked up a broom that was standing at attention, just waiting to be used. He proceeded to clean, silently, all attention on the broken cup. After piling the cup into one heap, he looked at her, without speaking for some time and then said, "I'm sorry about your niece. What was her name again?"

"Blair... Blair Roche." Janet sank down into her chair again, all energy escaping her. "She's all I have left, Walter. I gave up everything to take her in. And now she's gone."

He kicked the shards even further into the corner with the tip of his boot. "I'll bring her back. Promise."

(*)(*)(*)(*)

"Take a right here! It will cut the traffic!" Adrian was barking orders to his driver, which wasn't like him, so Janet sat up to ask him what the rush was, "lay down, Janet."

His hands led her down, adjusting her legs that lay across his lap. She was completely lost and now was becoming mildly nervous. Everything seemed to whiz by like some dream, or a remembrance of a dream, and her body didn't seem like hers though it felt faintly familiar.

"I'm taking you to the hospital." He offered without any prompt.

"But, what about the meeting?" Yes, the meeting, she remembered the meeting. Or at least she made this meeting to be so deeply embedded in her that nothing else seemed to matter.

"There is no meeting anymore, Janet. You fainted in your room; possibly hit your head on that God awful marble floor. I'm taking you to see a doctor." He rephrased his previous statement and threw it into this one for good measure and so that she understood the gravity of her action.

"I hit my head on the showerhead." She remembered that too.

"That explains the blood on the floor." He looked at her, a terrified look on his face, "I thought you were dying, Janet."

"No, no... You know I wouldn't do that... Not now." She put her arm across her face; the light from the limo window did little to keep the light from the morning sun burn her eyes, despite the fact that it was tinted. She was so tired and weak and the way Adrian's hands petted her calf made her crave sleep.

A blush crept on her face then, "you dressed me?"

"No," he chuckled, "you were already dressed."

"Hmm." She placed her other arm across her face and adjusted her head a little to fit into the ladle of the leather seat which was made for a comfortable sitting but served as a pillow well enough. Her eyes close and everything went black...


End file.
